Have you ever felt like you weren’t alive? Like your just a walking, talking corpse? People talking to you every day, their words just don’t reach you. Like everything is so far away. And you can’t feel anything. Everything moves slow. Everything is silent. You are numb. You are dead.
And the only thing that can bring you the slightest bit closer to life is something as gruesome as mutilating your body. The feel of the razor in between your thumb and forefinger, ensuring that you will bleed yet again. Letting you know that you are alive still. And you wouldn’t stop for the world. No. Because this is the only REAL thing left in the silence and lonliness that is your life. The only bit of color left in your world is the deep, organic red of your insides. The bitter-sweetness of the pain stinging at your wrists.
This is all I have left. I am nothing. I am no longer sacred, alive. I am dead. Dead. And the blood is the life.
There are 3 types of people that self-mutilate, in my opinion.
1. People that do it because someone they know does it and that person appeals to them so they imitate them. In other words, copy-cats who want attention.
2. People who want to die desperately but can’t bring themselves to actually cut deep enough to kill themselves. So they just kind of drag the knife along their skin to make noticeable marks.
3. People who are addicted to it and feel they need to do it to make sure they are alive. They feel like nothing else matters and no one else cares. They cannot see beyond the razor, so to speak. They have come to love the pain and the sight of blood forming on the wound. Some become obsessed with it.
Don’t misunderstand me. All three types are unhappy people, no doubt. They all have my sympathies.
The point of this entire thing is that I was once the most severe case of self-mutilation that I had ever seen. I have damaged nerve tissue in my left arm, disabling much of my ability to feel pain there. Then I stopped. Now it’s happening again. A point I want to make is that VERY few people can be truly understood. Anyone can guess why the quiet girl in the back of the classroom makes large gaping cuts on her arms. But hardly anyone will ever know. Maybe no one will ever know. Most of the time THEY don’t even know why they do it. I didn’t until nowadays.